Faking Ms. Right (Dirty Martini Running Club, #1)(46)

I didn’t see him anywhere—which was odd because he’d stick out like a sore thumb in this place. It was crowded—surprising on a Monday night—and it was clear people were here for the music. A few sat at the bar or the small tables, but the rest packed in around the stage.

It was an eclectic mix of people. Guys with tattoos and piercings. Girls with brightly dyed hair and badass red lipstick. Rockers with long hair and leather. A group of guys in button-down shirts, the sleeves cuffed. They looked more like Shepherd, but even they seemed too casual. There were older people, young couples, and everything in between. Although it was different than most of the places my girlfriends and I hung out, I liked it.

I texted Shepherd to let him know I was here, then wandered through the crowd toward the stage, keeping my eye out for him. The music was good. Really good. I found myself a little bit mesmerized by the melody. The singer had a great voice, but it was more than that. The band had an energy to them that drew me in. No wonder this place was so packed on a weeknight.

The bass drum had the band name on it—Incognito. The drummer beat the drums, sweat gleaming on his forehead. A guitar player sang backup into a mic next to the lead singer. The bass player stood toward the back of the stage where the light was dim. My eyes almost passed over him—where the heck was Shepherd?—when I did a double take.

Oh my god. The bass player looked exactly like Shepherd.

Holy shit. It was Shepherd.

I barely recognized him, with his disheveled hair and plain black t-shirt and jeans. He played a dark red bass guitar, his fingers busy strumming, his head bobbing slightly to the beat of the music. He seemed lost in the song, hardly paying attention to the crowd.

I’d seen Shepherd Calloway looking every bit the hot, wealthy businessman in a designer tux or a perfectly-tailored suit. I’d seen him at the end of a long day with the sleeves of his button-down shirt cuffed to his elbows. I’d even seen him in gym clothes after a workout and rubbing sleep from his eyes in the kitchen early in the morning while he waited for his coffee.

But this? I’d never dreamed I’d see Shepherd like this. Messy and a little sweaty, playing bass in a band at a dive bar?

He was so sexy I thought I might die.

I stared at him, open-mouthed, while he played. The bass line thumped, reverberating through my body. He didn’t look up. Just stood back there, almost in shadow, rocking out on his bass.

The crowd cheered while the band moved into a new song. I watched him, transfixed. Although he wasn’t working the audience the way the other guys were, he seemed at home up there. Relaxed in a way I’d never seen before.

The final song ended, and the singer thanked everyone for being here tonight. Shepherd finally looked up. He brushed the hair off his forehead, his eyes scanning the crowd.

Our gazes met and his lips turned up in a slow smile. He gave me a slight shrug, looking hesitant—almost shy. Before this moment, I never would have used that word to describe him. But there he was, with a boyish grin, glancing around at his surroundings as if to say, Yeah, I know this is weird.

He motioned for me to wait, then disappeared backstage with the rest of the band. Someone came on stage to introduce the next act—a woman named Dahlia Marlow. She was older—probably in her late fifties—with wildly curly hair and an acoustic guitar. The crowd gave her just much love as they had the band, and when she started singing, I could see why. Her voice was hypnotically beautiful.

It took a while before Shepherd came out, still dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. He ran a hand through his hair and gave me that little smile again.

“Hey.”

I blinked at him a few times, realizing too late that I was staring, open-mouthed. “Hey. Sorry. I’m just… I didn’t know you played. Or owned jeans.”

“Yeah, well, I’d get hot up there in a suit.”

You’re hot right now, Shepherd. Oh my god are you hot.

My eyes swept up and down, taking him in. Trying to reconcile this with the Shepherd Calloway I knew. Or thought I’d known. “How long have you been playing bass? Do you do this a lot? Is that your band? I have so many questions.”

He reached out and slid his hand to the small of my back, steering me toward the bar. “Yeah, I knew you would. Let’s get a drink.”

We got two whiskeys and found a small table near the outskirts of the bar. It was quieter here, a little corner shrouded in shadow.

“How is this possible?” I asked, gesturing at him, then behind me at the stage. “You’re in a band?”

“Yeah, it’s just a hobby for all of us. A side thing we like to do.”

“So you’re not about to give up the suits and corner office for a record deal,” I said and nudged his leg under the table.

“No, nothing like that. They even have another bassist who plays with them since I can’t get over here all that often.”

The significance of the bar’s name was finally dawning on me. “Is this where you go when you say you have to go to the office at night?”

He nodded, looking adorably guilty, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Yeah, sometimes. But, listen, no one knows about this. I mean that literally. No one.”

“Your dad doesn’t know?”

“No, he has no idea. Ethan doesn’t either, although he knows I learned to play.”

“Why haven’t you told them? Your dad would love to see you play. He’d lose his mind.”